Cliché 46
by Trialia
Summary: Dr. Weir has been… overtalking… JohnElizabeth


Title: Cliché #46  
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis  
Category/Rating: Romance, R+  
Spoilers: N/A  
Summary: Dr. Weir has been… over-talking… (John/Elizabeth smut69 prompt #18 strained, wordclaim50 prompt #7 cliché)

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"We can't do this here!" She tried to tell him they had to stop before they got caught, but... oddly enough she couldn't hear her own voice all that well. Then again, perhaps it wasn't surprising, considering the amount of strain her voice had been through in the past few weeks. They were lucky all the Ancient living quarters were soundproof, or the two of them would have been caught _in flagrante delicto_ several times over by now.

She hadn't known it would be this-- _explosive_. Jesus, she couldn't get enough of him and she'd never been like this, so... open, so uninhibited with anyone else and... Oh, God, what was he doing to her? She bit her lower lip _hard_, feeling his body against hers, solid and warm and firm; she tried, she really did, but after a few moments, well... there was nothing for it. If she bit her lips any more than she already had, she knew they'd start bleeding. She pulled him forward, capturing his mouth with hers, and he took the opportunity to run a long finger all the way down her spine.

The sound she made then wasn't quite a scream, but it wasn't far from it. He managed to suppress the volume through their fervent kiss, but she felt him pull her closer. She didn't know if they could get any nearer to each other without one being part of the other, but she loved it; loved him, even as his mouth broke from hers and trailed wetly down her neck again. It was the whimpers that seemed to be the most difficult to suppress, mewling cat-like noises that she couldn't help but make as his lips learned her body by heart.

"God, John!" she gasped, almost under her breath, arching up toward him as his tongue slid slowly across the skin beneath her breasts. She couldn't see his wicked grin; her eyelids fluttered helplessly. His hands slid to support her, resting at the small of her back, and his fingers began to move gently over the dip of her spine there. The sound she made then was almost guttural, a grunt of sheer animal pleasure she could never have imagined herself making until now. She'd made it several times in the last few weeks, as he'd slowly learned almost everything there was to arouse her body, and she his. He was damned good at this.

She'd never have dreamed anyone with the cheek and charm he had could actually have the talent in bed-- and, hell, in storage closets-- to back it all up, but her perceptions had been quickly corrected… ever since that first night that she'd come to his room and he'd finally persuaded her to stay there. Their first time hadn't been flawless; far from it, but she hadn't expected it to be and in her mind its imperfection just made it that much _more_ perfect. The rumours about the two of them made her smile, secretly, though she'd never admit it. The only person who was able to detect the tiny hint of suppressed amusement in her eyes whenever they were mentioned knew that, and he wouldn't stop teasing her about it.

Almost all traces of coherent thought had left her, now, as she slid helplessly to the closet floor when he let go of her, her eyes glazed as she tipped her head back to try and focus on him. "Please…"

He held back the smirk of knowing she was now too far gone to argue about their location. She almost always argued, but he knew she didn't mean it seriously. John Sheppard knew when to stop arguing-- he also knew when not to fight _her_, and this definitely fell into that category. His level of arousal by the sounds she'd been making was so great it was nearing pain; pleasure-pain that only she could bring to him. He'd had good teachers, but as he'd once been told by some girl he'd met in a bar, nobody became a great lover unless they truly loved. He thought he finally knew what she'd meant. He smiled, dropping to his knees before her, carefully (the floor of a closet, after all, didn't have carpet).

She was too far over the edge to come back, eyes fluttering as she circled her hips involuntarily against his, the tiny noises emanating from the back of her throat unceasing. He groaned as she pressed against him; she barely heard it. Lost in a fog of pleasure and sheer unrestrained want, she reached out to pull him closer, instinct overpowering her thoughts as she kissed him deeply, her tongue sliding wetly over his slick lips before finding its way inside them. His hand slipped between the two of them and Elizabeth cried out low in her throat, her eyes falling shut and her body shuddering helplessly, breaking the kiss and falling limply against the wall as his fingers slid easily through her wetness, seeking, caressing. She moaned his name and his head bent toward her again as he kissed his way down her taut, trembling stomach. Forcing herself up to a sitting position, she reached for his fly and it was his turn to gasp her name as she brushed him with the backs of her fingers, lightly.

From there on, everything became a blur for her, the haze of desire falling over and covering everything as mutual murmurs and cries of passion no longer able to be suppressed were heard; she thrust back against him and he moved within her, two bodies and souls colliding with each other over and over, slowly, quickly, lovingly, becoming one in a final explosion of sound and emotion, tension and weakness, man and woman inseparable.

"Dr. Weir, is your throat sore?" Carson Beckett moved in her direction, looking a little concerned. She managed to suppress the grin thinking about why her throat hurt tried to provoke in her, and merely smiled at him.

"Actually, yes, it _is_ a little raw," she admitted. "It's probably just over-talking, though." And that was true… partly. She wouldn't classify the sounds she'd been making to strain her voice as talking, exactly…

Unaware of her thoughts, Carson nodded. "We'll have to get you something, then. Perhaps you should ask people to give you reports instead of arranging so many meetings?"

John Sheppard gave her a knowing look from across the room, not bothering to conceal the smirk that rode his lips. That man and his damned storage closets. The problem was that he _knew_ the risk of discovery turned her on. (It was about the only risk that _did_.)

"That might be a good idea," she nodded, switching her attention back to the CMO in front of her. "Shall we?" Doctors Weir and Beckett walked out of the room, the former being very careful not to look back over her shoulder.

She'd deal with him later.

_fin_


End file.
